Til Death Do Us Part
by Lake of Rage
Summary: (MAJOR UNWOUND FUTURE SPOILERS) AU. What if Bill wasn't the only survivor that fateful day? What if Claire made it as well? As it turns out, simply by living, Dr. Claire Layton would end up saving three other lives. Unabashedly Clershel (Claire/Professor Layton).
1. Prologue: A Miracle or Two

_Ahem._

 _So, I know what you're thinking. "Maddie, for the love of crap, should you really be starting another story? Don't you have, like, three other unfinished stories right now? Shouldn't you be focusing on those?"_

 _To which I would reply, "No, yes, yes, and don't call me Maddie, you creep."_

 _Anyway, I just couldn't stand the feels that have been running through me lately. It was either a sappy Claire survives AU or a trove of supremely angsty Claire doesn't survive oneshots amidst a flood of saccharine Cleshel pre-explosion fics, so... yeah. I have both explosion angst and pre-explosion fluff in spades already, both posted and unposted, so I figured I should go for the more radical, less been-done-a-thousand-times thing. Even if Claire-survives!AU is probably very popular on fanfiction. And, if it isn't, I am more than prepared to kill someone, because, by heck, it really should be._

 _Incidentally, while I was writing the part about the fire, a very loud garbage truck came down my street. I was home from school that day, but I usually would've been in school, so I'd never heard that truck before. It was loud, and it was making those beeping noises, and I swear to Arceus, I was_ sure _for a minute that there was a fire truck coming down my street, toward my house. And I live on the very end of a no-outlet street, so, if you assume it to be a fire truck, that could mean only one thing._

 _Needless to say, I needed some calming down after that, but the irony of the situation struck me pretty quickly._

 _With all that out of the way, let's get this show on the road!_

* * *

 **Prologue  
** **A Miracle or Two**

Everything was going to be perfect.

Despite his anxiety, which could only be described as " _crushing_ ", Hershel had long since convinced himself of that. After all, he'd planned every part of the night ahead of him. He'd mapped out everything completely; he'd accounted for every possible scenario. Preparation wasn't his "thing"—for as cool-headed as he was, he still tended to throw himself into situations well before most would dare. But, this time, he had spent days agonizing over every last minute detail.

And everything was going to be perfect.

For the thousandth time, he allowed his hand to stray from the brim of his new top hat, fidgeting nervously with the small velvet-coated box resting gently in his pocket. Subtle though it was, the slight heft of it in his hand felt _right_. As soon as he'd seen the ring, he'd known it was the one; it just seemed so perfect.

It would look lovely on her, though nothing could look lovelier than her smile when she found him holed up in his new office, falling asleep over essays. _"I suppose I'm glad that you're the Professor,"_ she would whisper to him as she shook him gently awake. _"You can take away my life, but you can't take away my sleep!"_ Here, she would laugh. _"That's probably our lab's motto. Even Dimitri rarely stays to keep working after hours, and he's pretty proud of his work."_

And Layton, brushing the sleep from his eyes, would offer an identical smile to the one on her face and say, _"Be that as it may, Claire, I don't know what I'd do if you truly did die. Don't work too hard, okay?"_

And Claire would laugh again, this time even louder, and say, _"Don't flatter yourself, Professor Layton,"_ with a grin. _"You're the one who's obsessed with his work. If anyone's going to die from his job, it's you."_

His response would be _"Oh? And how would I die, by means of papercut?"_ and they would both laugh together as he walked Claire home before, by her insistence, he would return to his own flat and go to sleep on an actual bed, because _all that sleeping in chairs and on couches can't be good for you, Hershel._

(Later, he would look back at this conversation and think that perhaps they had jinxed themselves. Then he would indulge in his newfound habit of pulling his hat down over his eyes so that he wouldn't have to see the motionless body laying before him. Now, though, he simply smiled nostalgically at the memory of those common exchanges.)

Once again, he checked to assure their reservation still stood. Fancy and expensive dinners would usually have been a dead giveaway, ruining the surprise, but he had made up his mind at just the opportune time. Today, Claire was participating in a supposedly groundbreaking experiment with the new time machine she'd helped develop. Taking her out for a celebratory splurge afterwards was perfectly natural (he hoped).

Personally, he was doubtful that this new machine would amount to anything. None of their countless prototypes had even come close to success, after all. And, as ungentlemanly as it was to think, he was sort of hoping that he was right. After all, if the time machine turned out to be the real deal, then he couldn't in good conscience ask her hand in marriage that same night—so much excitement in one day would likely overwhelm her.

And, for that matter, he was also prepared to call himself off if she seemed particularly upset about the failure of the machine. After all, despite technically being only an assistant, the time machine was still _her_ project, and he wouldn't blame her for being upset if it didn't go well. And, of course, if she didn't seem to like the restaurant, or if she just seemed to be uncomfortable or annoyed by the countless compliments he would probably be dropping—

But that _wouldn't_ happen, he reassured himself firmly. His fingers reluctantly released the box, letting it plop back down into the depths of his pocket. Reminding himself of all the ways this could go wrong wasn't going to help his case. He just had to think positively.

After all, they had their differences, but they were clearly meant for each other. Both were polite, kind, and selfless, not to mention intelligent to the point of being hailed as prodigies. Sure, he might be forgetful, disorganized, and a workaholic. Sure, she might be teasing, stubborn, and a bit prideful. But neither of them would have it any other way.

He supposed he almost definitely had nothing to worry about when it came to the fear that she didn't love him. For, as much as it embarrassed him to admit it, Claire was not only the more romantic of the two, but also the one who almost always took the initiative. Mostly because, until very lately, Hershel had been far too cripplingly polite to be lovey-dovey and risk making her uneasy or embarrassed (to be honest, he was the easily-flustered one).

A smile flickered across his face without waiting for his consent. Yes, Claire most definitely took charge when it came to their relationship: unlike Hershel himself, she seemed to know exactly how they both felt and had no qualms with acting on that. Although he had technically asked her out first, that was only after she hinted that she liked him so blatantly that she practically counted as the one who'd taken the lead.

After that, most, if not all, of their dates had been planned by her; in fact, as she often joked, they might never get out if it was up to Hershel. Of course, it wasn't that he didn't want to spend time with her. He was just a fan of much less formal "dates" of simply sitting together, either chatting or enjoying a nice companionable silence. Claire, on the other hand, wanted to get out and see the world—rather than stop to smell the roses, she ran ahead in search of even better scents.

Speaking of floral scents...

Smiling distractedly with only a fraction of his usual charm, Hershel approached the florist from whom he'd ordered the flowers for the event, opening the door with a tinkle from the bell attached to it. Said florist looked up curiously and spotted first his hat, then his face. Familiar with both the young gentleman and the sweetheart he spoke of, she only nodded in greeting with a smile.

"Good afternoon, Esther," he offered absently, trying his best to snap out of his reverie but, frankly, failing. "As I'm sure you've guessed, I've come to pick up those flowers I ordered. Are they in?"

Esther grinned widely. "Aye, Hershel, I've got 'em ready for you." Reaching behind her counter, she shifted through some bouquets in shallow pots of water before pulling out a stunning arrangement of pale blue wildflowers mixed with the standard dozen red roses. "For Claire, still, I hope," she teased with a wink, handing them over.

The dreamy look on Hershel's face as he doled out her payment didn't slip by her. "Yes, most definitely," he agreed.

Glancing at his pocket watch, he smiled slightly. Claire had told him that the experiment was to happen at 2 in the afternoon, right on the dot, so that it would be easier to know when to return to if the trip to the future was successful. It was nearing time right now; 1:50, according to his trusty watch.

"Perhaps I'd better get going." Having practically dismissed himself, he turned, exiting the door with another _ding_ and heading in the general direction of the Institute of Polydimensional Physics. For such an impressive name, Claire often bemoaned how few sponsors they had, leaving them in a small three-room lab above some apartments.

He took in a huge breath, let it out, and allowed himself one last look at the ring before snapping the box shut again and redepositing it in his pocket. He would arrive at 2:30, as he'd promised Claire, and give her the flowers—then give her a few hours to properly record everything. After that, he would take her to the restaurant, where they would arrive at six, and tell her to order anything she wished since it was a special day. They would eat, then get dessert, and then he would suggest a small walk that, as it so happened, would end on a long and beautiful park trail. He would get down on one knee, and the rest would be history.

So busy was he remembering his plan, he didn't notice when a curly-haired man in a long lab coat sprinted by him, heading in the same direction. In fact, he was one of the few that didn't notice the first _rrrrrumble_ of the sidewalk, too absorbed in his own mind.

But there are some things you just can't miss, no matter who you are or what you're thinking about.

An explosion rocked the earth.

* * *

The shock he slipped into made everything after that a blur.

Vaguely, he could recall looking toward the building now in smoke and recognizing it. After that, there was only a faint memory of his shoes against asphalt before he found himself in front of the Institute of Polydimensional Physics, staring distantly at the fire pouring out of its windows.

Then, everything started to become more distinct in his memory. He could remember the disjointed screams faintly echoing around him, the pounding of footsteps in every direction, and the sobbing of those who had made it out whose families weren't so lucky, all set over the background noise of roaring flames. The stench of smoke and ash choked him, but he didn't try to escape the smothering smell.

His mental capacity was that of drywall at the moment, and it took him several minutes to piece together the puzzle.

 _A gentleman goes to visit his girlfriend. On the way, he hears a loud explosion and runs to the building where she works, only to find it up in flames. There's no reason for her to have not been in the building, and she is not in the surrounding crowds of people. She also isn't safely on the roof of the building; even if she was, it wouldn't help, since the entire roof is aflame. How many girlfriends does he have now?_

And Hershel's mind was very stubbornly answering _"One"._

In the end, he owed his life to the boy whose life he saved. In truth, he had been centimeters away from barreling through the people throwing buckets of water onto the flame and running right into the building in some futile hope that he could save Claire, _not that she needed saving in the first place, because she wasn't still in there; there was no way she could be._

But then the crying noise grew louder and louder until it was wailing in his ears like sirens and a little boy rushed past him, heading for the burning doorway.

In an instant, his vision cleared from a single blur of color to the sharpest he'd ever seen. Acting on instinct, Hershel lurched forward, arms wrapping around the boy's torso to hold him back. The reaction was immediate: the brown-haired boy began to thrash desperately in his hold, crying even louder. "No! _No!"_ he screamed, tears streaming down his face so fast that Hershel was almost scared they'd erode away his skin. "Let go! I-I have to get in there!" His fists and feet hit at his savior's stomach and shins, but to no avail. _"M-Mom and Dad are still—!"_

Right then, with a terrible groan of wood and the shouts of water-carriers as they scattered, the top floor of the building collapsed, entirely demolishing the apartments below.

With a wail of anguish, the boy stopped fighting, instead burying his face into his hands as his knees gave way. He would've fallen to the ground abruptly like a puppet with its strings cut if it hadn't been for Hershel's strong hold. As it was, he sobbed loudly and brokenly as he watched his life crumble away before his very eyes.

It hadn't been a conscious decision to comfort the boy. Without even really thinking of it, Hershel had brushed aside his own sorrow like the true gentleman he was and turned the child around before pulling him into a hug. "They're not gone! They can't be gone!" he was insisting at this point. At first, he continued to strike at Hershel's chest, but he quickly wore himself out and simply sagged into the man, taking the only consolation he could get.

"Would your parents want you to harm yourself in an attempt to help them?" At that, the boy seemed to calm a little, although he still wept into Hershel's shirt. "I believe that they would be overjoyed that you were not caught in the fire, my boy."

 _"They c-can't be happy ab-bout anything if they're dead!"_ Clive shouted, and Hershel flinched at the word. Another burst of compulsion exploded within him, demanding that he go dig through the smoldering rubble (as if she wasn't already dead), and he looked down, the brim of his hat casting a long shadow over his eyes. Resignation quickly crushed that impulse. _'Practice what you preach, Hershel.'_

He tightened the embrace and, this time, the boy willingly wrapped his arms around him. "On the contrary, my boy, I know for a fact that they're watching over you even now." A sad smile made it onto his lips as he felt the boy tremble in his arms. "And I think they must be very happy indeed that you're safe." He wasn't lying in the slightest when he added in a whisper, "And so proud that they raised such a brave little boy."

After that, the boy quieted, only crying as Hershel patted his back. Behind them, the flames had finally been quelled, but not before the building was left a smoking pile of debris. There had been only one miraculous survivor—Claire's partner, Bill something. When his eyes met Hershel's he hastily and guiltily looked down, and it was all he could do not to break down just like the child in his arms.

Only when the police began sifting through the wreckage to find the bodies and give them proper burials did he break their embrace. "Come on," he muttered to the boy, guiding him away from the ruins before he could spot any charred corpses. "This is no place for a child."

Hesitantly, the boy released his grip on the Professor's coat, instead taking the hand of a nurse and allowing her to escort him out, along with all the others who were nearby during the explosion. As she led him away, he turned and looked over his shoulder just in time to witness the beginning of Hershel Layton's lowest point.

* * *

For the first time in recent memory, he cried.

And this wasn't just shedding a single tear to adorn his cheek because he looked directly at the sun or twisted his ankle. Nor was it even just a few short streams because he heard some especially bad news. These were two blue banners unfurling down his face, drenching his collar and seeping down to drench the rest of his shirt as well. Silent sobs racked his body, and he quickly reached up to tilt his hat down and hide his eyes from the outside world.

Not that it really helped. By this point, his entire face was overflowing with rivulets of salt water. _'A gentleman must never make a scene,'_ he told himself, but it was no use; the floodgates were open, and there was no stopping now.

Besides, these were special circumstances if there ever were special circumstances.

The constant _clang_ and _shhhh_ of rubble being shifted out of the way was a welcome change to the roaring of the fire and the screams of the people, but, at that moment, he heard nothing but his own quiet gasps. Soaking up the tears with his sleeve, he squeezed his eyes shut in some half-baked attempt to make those drops stop welling up. He failed, of course, and only cried harder.

No.

She wasn't gone.

He absolutely refused to believe that. How could she be gone? No, he was mistaken—this was the wrong building. Obviously. He had just seen her this morning, arriving at her doorway to see her off for her very first scientific breakthrough. This was far too sudden to have—

It was the time machine, wasn't it? The time machine must have exploded. His heart pounded in his ears. For there to have been that volatile of a reaction, it had to have _worked,_ right? Claire had to be safely tucked away in the future, ready to return— _'But, if that's the case, why did this happen at all? We're talking about time travel; if she knew that this would happen, she would've come back to stop the experiment,'_ his mind whispered traitorously.

A sudden burst of rage shivered through his body, and he felt a strong urge to rip off his hat and fling it onto the ground before stomping on it until it was a dejected mass of dark fabric. Instead, he hurled down his bouquet and kicked it, ripping several flower heads clean off their stems. Red and blue petals scattered, crumpling against the pavement, and an uncontrollable image branded itself into his brain—

 _Claire, in her usual pale blue jacket, her skin cold and pale, her eyes staring blankly into the distance, blood pooling around her as fire ate away at her delicate skin, not giving her the chance to rest in peace_

—quickly breaking away his rage. "No," he whispered tremulously, knees wobbling, "please, no... she can't be g-gone..." Even if there was anyone there who could do anything about it, they wouldn't have been able to hear him: his voice was far too quiet right now. That didn't stop him. "Please, I'll do anything... I'll be better; I can be the best husb—"

And there it was.

His breaking point.

Because he really _couldn't_ be the best husband. In fact, he couldn't be a husband at all, now, could he? Because he had never gotten the chance to even ask her. Claire was... Claire was d- _dead._ Claire was _dead,_ and she would never have the chance to even see the ring. The ring that would have suited her perfectly.

Without warning, his legs gave out from under him and he collapsed to the ground, knees colliding roughly before his palms joined them. Miraculously, his hat remained firmly on his head. A single choked sob escaped him before his hand clasped tight to his mouth and he broke down, body curling in on itself. Suddenly, his skin was too tight, too heavy, and too searingly hot, holding his jangling bones tight. All he could think of was that _damn it, the ring would've suited her perfectly._

"Layton!"

He didn't know who was calling him; he didn't much care. Right now, he needed a minute to be ungentlemanly; to put his own selfish grief first. The person calling him wasn't Claire, so they could make time later. _Claire would never be able to make time again._

"Layton!" the voice cried again—closer, this time, and louder. Hands gripped his shoulders and began to shake, as if honestly thinking they could get his attention that way. Ha. _'I'm sure it's imperative that I help you with that puzzle, or_ — _wait, let me guess_ — _give you advice on whether that pebble from the street is an ancient arrowhead?'_ he thought bitterly. The minute he'd had so far wasn't enough time to wallow before he could put his gentleman's mask back on.

 _Slap!_

His chin was gripped and jerked upward before he was harshly backhanded right across the cheek, sending his unprepared body sprawling. Barely comprehending the blow, he simply allowed himself to slump to the ground, staring up at the sky. It was jarringly bright and sunny out today. Not a cloud in sight. It really should've been raining.

Another backhand, this one only slightly weaker. "Get a hold of yourself, Layton!" a voice snarled, and he allowed his eyes to wander over to the speaker's face. He almost didn't recognize Dr. Dimitri Allen, Claire's coworker. The man had obviously been crying quite a bit as well, and his face was smeared with soot, as was his usually pristine white lab coat. A bit of sympathy flickered across his face when he saw Hershel's eyes, but he nonetheless shook the Professor again. "Listen!"

Honestly, Hershel wasn't up to this at the moment. He was so out of it that he almost looked right back away without bothering to listen. That was around the time that he noticed Claire's pale pink scarf, singed around the edges and specked with blood but relatively whole.

He snapped to attention.

Realizing that he'd finally gotten the man out of his stupor, Dimitri snapped once, redirecting Hershel's gaze. "She still has a pulse," he explained breathlessly, pointing to the wreckage. "But I need help to get the rubble off of—"

He didn't need to finish. Hershel was on his feet faster than a bullet, hope dawning across his face and quickly being followed by grim determination. His eyes sifted through the destruction frantically until he saw a flash of pale blue and white amidst the devastation.

 _Not dead._

 _Claire isn't dead._

Both men were over in an instant, Dimitri not beating Hershel despite knowing just where to be. Nothing could beat Hershel right now. His sights were set on his goal— _save Claire, save Claire, save Claire_ —and the adrenaline pumping through his veins was nothing compared to the sheer _ecstasy_ he felt. Both emotions were impacting his strength at the moment.

It wasn't exactly a walk in the park. The metal of the time machine had been pressed in around her, tightening around her body like a clenched fist, and bending it away from her took the strength of a bear or two. It didn't help that, after the fire and under the sun, the scrap metal was burning hot—literally. But it took only one glance at the pale hand bent at an odd angle and sticking through a gap in the pieces for Hershel to overlook both of those facts.

He planted a foot along one bent edge of the opening, hooked both hands around the other edge, and pulled. Dimitri joined him; the onlookers only gave them sad looks, clearly not believing that the woman inside could truly be alive, but none of them attempted to stop the two love-driven men.

Finally, with a metallic groan followed by a high-pitched _skreee,_ the two scraps parted, exposing the limp form of Claire Foley within. On some unspoken agreement, Hershel kept hold of the metal to assure it didn't snap back into place as Dimitri scampered inside, cradling the ginger in his arms and gently pulling her to safety. As soon as they were both in the clear, Hershel let go and knelt beside them, desperately surveying her body for any sign of life.

She looked a right mess, with her hair burned and blackened along the ends. Her clothing wasn't faring much better, although her scarf wasn't too charred. Somehow, though— _somehow_ —she'd escaped major harm for the most part, with only a few minor burns, what appeared to be a broken wrist, and a mottling of bruises all along her visible skin, plus some lacerations along her face, arms, and legs.

He sucked in a breath.

"She's breathing."

It was barely a whisper; barely a noise at all. But Dimitri heard nonetheless and quickly placed an ear against her chest. It took only a second for him to hear it as well: a soft, ragged wheeze as Claire's torso seemed to expand ever-so-slightly.

"Claire," Hershel croaked, his voice cracking as his previous crying session caught up with him. He shifted closer as Dimitri pulled away, looking like he was about to cry very different types of tears. "Claire, can you hear me?"

Hesitantly, but without a shred of the usual jealous animosity he held for the man, Dimitri offered her unconscious ( _not dead; not dead!_ ) form to the brunette. Eagerly taking her into his arms, Hershel held her close and brushed his knuckles gently across her cheek. "Claire, wake up." Truly, it was a wonder how he managed to sound tender and urgent at the same time. "Claire?"

Honestly, he hadn't really expected her to come to. It had just been a token request that he knew full well wouldn't come true. But—because apparently luck hadn't done enough favors for him in the past five minutes—she suddenly jolted in his grasp, a dry cough tearing itself up from her throat, as her face twisted into a picture of pain. "Claire!" he gasped, his grip on her only tightening.

She moaned, head lolling to the side, and he cupped her cheek. "Claire, can you hear me?" he asked, fully aware that all the bystanders' eyes were now on them and not particularly caring. "It's Hershel." And then, without even really thinking about it, he added, "Hershel and Dimitri," not noticing the shocked look Dr. Allen shot him. "We've got you, my dear," he assured when she began to squirm weakly in his grasp, and she quickly relaxed, losing her battle with slumber and sliding back into the safe realm of unconsciousness. This time, her breathing was much steadier.

Dimitri stood, turning to the onlookers. "Doctor!" he shouted, his heart swelling within his chest even as the uneasiness refused to leave the pit of his stomach. "We need a doctor! She needs a hospital!"

Behind him, Layton hoisted Claire's slack form into his arms bridal style, then stood, lifting her off the ground easily. He turned to Dimitri and the two, once strangers separated by Dimtiri's envy, locked eyes and nodded in sync.

Right now, nothing mattered but Claire.

Because neither man was ready to lose her, now or ever.

* * *

 _..._

 _...owch._

 _Really. Owch. That is one of the most painful things I've ever written. And this isn't the first fic I've written about Claire's death, so it's not like I don't work with some serious angst very often. In fact, angst is the most common thing I write, with diabetes-inducing fluff at a close second. When it comes to what you can expect from this fic... well, there will be some angst, such as in this chapter, but fear not: it will be 95% teeth-rotting fluff._

 _In any case, next time! We get to see Claire's perspective with the whole time machine incident and what she saw in this changed future where she didn't perish in that accident! How will she react to seeing her future self and Hershel? How will she react to finding herself a part of a massive explosion? Find out next time on_ _the_ Lake of Rage Writes Clershel Angst, Fluff, and Fluffy Angst Show! _Or whatever I'm gonna call this._


	2. Chapter 1: Predetermined Results

_Well, this took me an embarrassingly long time to get out. I had planned on releasing it only a day or two after the prologue, but then I got writer's block. Just goes to show that you shouldn't count your plans before they hatch, I guess. HA! ...no? No? How about this: don't count your Clershels before they hat! ...I'm sorry._

 _In any case, this chapter is more plotty than character-y, sadly, but fear not; we will get back to the endeavor to give the entire fandom diabetes soon enough!_

 _My sincerest thanks to **TheSpookster** (I always felt bad for Dimitri, and I wondered if he could've had a friendship with Layton if Claire had lived, so there's your reasoning) for reviewing, as well as the four-ish people who have favorited and/or followed this story so far! It means a lot to me, really. I know that I often seem not-too-grateful since it takes me forever to upload, but I really do appreciate you all, I swear._

 _On an entirely unrelated note, I do not own_ Professor Layton. _Level-5 keeps my heart in their sock drawer, folks._

 _With all that out of the way, let's get this show on the road!_

* * *

 **Chapter One  
Predetermined Results**

A newspaper fell over his neck with a _thwap_ , and Hershel awoke with a start.

Her hospital room was dimly lit by the mottled rays of dawn being filtered through the leaf-covered branches outside the window. The atmosphere was tranquil to the extreme and threatened to lure him back into the realm of sleep, but he knew he had to wake up now and shook it off. Hershel groaned and stretched, trying to get the kink out of his back—he really needed to stop falling asleep in these chairs—and the paper fell off of his shoulders to the ground below.

"Thank you," he spoke, not bothering to look for the person who'd given it to him. As usual, he could only focus on Claire's motionless form laid out amidst a sea of stark white hospital sheets. Eventually, they had swapped out her clothing for the standard blue hospital garb, but the burnt ends to her hair and the painful red splotches on her pale skin remained. Still, she looked near angelic, her face content and placid.

"Don't thank me yet," came the rough voice of Dimitri. It sounded far too tired; he suspected that he hadn't been the only one who fell asleep in Claire's room last night. Glancing up at the man, he saw the look of disgust that, lately, almost always accompanied him when he came in with the article from today's World Times. "Read it," he ordered, gesturing vaguely towards the newest issue. "You'll see what I mean."

Sure enough, Hershel felt a rare spike of anger as soon as he scanned the headline. _"Dr. Bill Hawkes, Future Prime Minister?"_ The paper was lucky that he was a man who didn't believe in acting on his anger, because that was one of the most infuriating things he'd ever read in his life. Against his better judgement, the Professor skimmed the article, his irritation only growing.

According to Dariya Kolum, Bill Hawkes was the newest egotistical upstart in London, although she wrote of him rather more kindly than that. Hershel couldn't fault her for that, what with the stories Hawkes had been spreading about the time machine incident. Still, it brought him great distress to see the man referred to as _"a recent hero"_ and _"a humble man of logic"._ He supposed, though, that if he hadn't done his extensive research, he wouldn't have seen through Hawkes' facade either.

Because it really was a facade. The man had been right to feel guilty at Claire's death, because it was entirely his fault—and, for once, Hershel saw no problem with placing all the blame on another. Judging by the sudden influx of spending money he had to dispose of after the incident and the fact that Dimitri had predicted the machine's explosion but he'd run the trial anyway, he'd taken a bribe.

He'd basically been paid to take Claire's life, not to mention the lives of all the others lost in the fire. And now the media was lauding him for his gallant actions in selling the lives of others to the highest bidder.

Unfortunately, though, there wasn't a thing he could do about it. With Claire in a coma, Dimitri had no way to prove that Hawkes had run the experiment solely for his own monetary gain even though there had been a fatal flaw in the machine. Hawkes, of course, was claiming that he'd never been informed of such a flaw, and he'd even gone so far as to try placing the blame on Dimitri for supposedly sacrificing Claire despite knowing of the machine's inevitable explosion. A preposterous claim, to be sure, but things didn't look good for Dimitri—why had he missed the trial run, then? Wasn't he the one who stood to gain the most if the machine succeeded?

With a lugubrious sigh, Hershel sunk into his seat, resting his head in his hands and letting the World Times plop onto Claire's bed carelessly. "This is ludicrous," he muttered, voice impressively composed, if weary. "An idiot can see that this man took a bribe." Dimitri did a double take, almost not believing that this was the real Professor Layton—that was quite possibly the most negative thing he'd ever said in the past month as they waited for Claire to awake.

Not that those who believed Hawkes didn't deserve the criticism, but it wasn't like Hershel to dole it out.

Sure enough, repentance was in the man's voice as he hastily added, "I'm sorry; that was terribly rude of me." Another long sigh. He sat up straighter in his chair and retrieved the newspaper, neatly folding it before laying it on the top of the stack they'd been amassing of Hawkes-related documents. As soon as Claire was out of the hospital, Dimitri was determined to make the man spend time behind bars for the ten lives he'd taken.

Reaching into his pocket, he moved aside the ring he still carried with him and pulled out his pocket watch, flipping it open. _8:15._ "Oh, dear," he said without inflection. "It appears that I am overdue to rise if I wish to eat before my first class." Dimitri didn't bother mentioning that he knew; that was why he'd woken the man up rather than let him sleep. Standing, Hershel put the watch away and headed for the door. "Am I to assume that you want the usual?"

"Yes," Dimitri replied absently, staring at Claire as if hoping he could get her to wake up by sheer force of will.

Hershel moved on autopilot, stumbling his way to the nearest vendor and buying the same food he'd bought nearly every day for last few weeks of the month he'd been waiting with Dimitri. Some meat, some eggs, some bread, a bottle of water for Dimitri, and a thermos of tea for himself. He dropped of Dimitri's meal, gave Claire one last fervent glance, then turned and headed towards Gressenheller, hoisting his bag higher up on his shoulder.

At this point, his bag had become his makeshift office, holding everything he needed to minimize time spent not at either work or the hospital. The only thing he still went home for now was to change clothing and pick up the post every day. As he scarfed down his food, he sifted through the graded essays in one of the bag's pockets to assure he hadn't missed any; sure enough, they were all accounted for.

He had considered taking a vacation to watch over Claire, but, when the doctors informed him that it could be months until she woke up, he had decided that he couldn't afford that long of leave. Not to mention the strain it was sure to put on poor Dr. Glaive, his assigned substitute. Besides, Claire would want him by her side when she awoke, but no doubt she would be less-than-pleased if he lost his job in the process. In fact, it wouldn't surprise him if she lectured him for hours with her dry throat and weak voice until the nurses forced him to leave for aggravating the patient.

Classes were long and rather dull. His students were dead silent the entire time, no matter how animated he made his lecturing—if anything, they seemed to find his cheery demeanor unsettling. All of them had heard of Claire's fate from both the newspaper and gossip, and they obviously expected him to break down at some point, so they were always walking on eggshells around him. Truly, that was the thing that upset him most about recent events.

His fellow professors, at least, seemed to be taking him more seriously now, convinced that he wasn't just going to abandon the position as soon as the going got rough (which, according to Dean Delmona, happened quite a bit with younger Professors after a year or so).

By the time his classes were all over, he was drained both physically and emotionally from the strain of remaining upbeat when everyone around him was treating him like a ticking time bomb. He picked up supper on his way back to the hospital, then plopped back down in his usual seat and began grading another stack of essays. Dimitri was gone, as was this week's stack of Hawkes-related newspaper articles, and Layton suspected he was in his flat, mulling over the evidence and trying to find a way to expose the "future Prime Minister" for what he was.

He had long since grown acclimated to the silence of the hospital, broken only by the quiet _scrtch scrtch_ of his correcting pen. The faint murmur of mourning was little more than background noise to him now, drowned out by the ruckus of the gears in his head as he attacked the papers in front of him, covering them in red ink. It really was true what the students said about him—once he graded your paper, you could get it published if you wanted.

In his first week there, he might have glanced at Claire's bed every few minutes to ascertain that she wasn't coming to despite knowing that the chances of that were slim to none. Now, he was so attuned to her without the need for eye contact that he could focus almost entirely on his work. If she so much as twitched, he would notice, so he was able to give his almost undivided attention to his essays.

Until she... well, twitched.

In all honesty, it was more of a shift than a twitch, but Hershel nonetheless jumped at the subtle movement, his pen clattering to the floor and papers scattering everywhere. Jerking forward so he was quite literally on the edge of his seat, leaning over her, he reached out and placed his hand over hers. "Claire," he breathed, eyes wide. Then, voice strengthening, "Claire, can you hear me?"

Unexpectedly, she tossed again, a quiet grunt coming from the back of her throat. Hoping with everything he had that she would just open those eyes, even if only for a second, Hershel gripped her hand a little tighter, pressing it between his two much warmer palms. "Claire, can you hear me?" he repeated, eyes fixated on her own closed ones so intensely that he feared he might burn them away.

This time, her lips actually parted as she groaned, legs kicking restlessly and brow furrowing. He could feel her hand wriggle inside his own and loosened his hold guiltily. When her teeth met and the ends of her mouth turned down, threatening to become a grimace, he hastened to reassure her, "You're alright, my dear."

He hadn't expected his wish to be granted; he hadn't expected her to have the energy to move her eyelids. And, even if he had expected it, he would've imagined them fluttering open painfully, probably slamming back shut when the lights stung her unaccustomed eyes.

It was a rather good thing that he was getting used to her surprising him.

At first, she relaxed at the sound of his voice, her fingers weakly gripping the side of his hand. Without warning, she went rigid, her entire form stiffening like a stone statue. "Claire?" Hershel asked worriedly, frowning at her seemingly unreasonable reaction. "Are you alri—?"

That was evidently the wrong thing to do. If she had been tense before, then he didn't even have a strong enough word to describe how tense she was as soon as his first word reached her. Before he could finish his sentence, her eyes snapped open, meeting his in a clash of surprised dark brown and a much warmer, much more panicked shade of chocolate.

It all happened in an instant. Those eyes opened, her hand jerked itself out of his grasp, and, before he could even finish his cry of "Clai—!", she lurched upright, gripped his hair in both hands, and kissed him.

Shocked, he froze in place, his hat falling to the bed as her fingers pushed under the brim. As soon as the kiss had started, it was over, not giving him time to react, but he hardly needed it. As soon as her hands had untangled themselves from his hair, Claire wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her face into his chest, her entire body shaking. "I do," she gasped, nearly sobbing. "I do, I do, I do! More than you could know, Hershel..."

Lost, Hershel nonetheless shimmied forward to make her position less awkward as he wrapped his arms around her frame, which had gone frail after a month of complete stillness. "Claire," he began uneasily, unable to understand why she was acting so oddly, "what do you mean?"

She pulled out of his embrace then, face frantic again, and practically dove for his trousers, digging through the pockets. Hershel just watched with wide eyes as she pulled out the box— _surprise ruined, he supposed_ —flipped it open, and shoved the ring haphazardly into his hands. "I do," she repeated one last time, tears finally brimming in her eyes.

Finally, the gears began to turn in his head. His mouth opened and closed, but he didn't say anything, shocked into silence for one of the first times in his life. How did she...? And when...? _The ring really did look perfect on her._ But, wait, who cared about that?! She had just woken up at random in the hospital and the first thing she said was the answer to a question he'd never asked?

Then all of that melted away when her answer sank in.

"You do?" he sputtered in what he admitted was a rather ungentlemanly manner, staring at her like she'd just found a puzzle he couldn't solve. His mind was going a million kilometers an hour, but it was having trouble keeping up with his heart rate. He had planned for this—the dinner, the walk, the park, the flowers, the ring—and literally everything that could've gone wrong had gone wrong.

Despite herself, Claire laughed at that, wiping tears out of the corners of her eyes. Usually, she would've said something like _"You sound disappointed, Hershel,"_ or _"Yes, that's what I said. Perhaps you should get your hearing checked."_ But, right now, all she could muster up was a wavering "Yes, Hershel. I do." Reaching out, she took his hand in hers and guided it forward, gesturing for him to place the ring on her finger. "Nothing would make me happier."

Heart soaring, Hershel returned her smile. After turning it around in his fingers a few times, as if assuring that it wasn't damaged (because she deserved no less than perfection), he gently took her left hand in his.

He paused.

Hesitation was the last thing on his mind right now. But Claire couldn't help but start, having never known the man to stop in the middle of something like he was now. Following his gaze, he found her to be staring at her fingers and—once again, she started, then she bit her lip. Was he staring at the straight line of burned flesh against the back of her hand? An uncharacteristic wave of self-consciousness shuddered through her. "Hershel?"

 _"You're perfect."_

It was barely more than a whisper, but she caught it anyway. A glance at his face showed nothing but that look he sometimes got when they were alone and silent. Half awe and half love. Not letting go of her hand, he stood, shuffled away from his chair, and lowered himself to one knee.

"I don't know what I ever did to deserve you." The room around them was dead silent; neither one dared breathe as Hershel rubbed the ring once more with his thumb, then bowed his head and slipped it onto her finger.

"Claire Foley, will you marry me?"

She didn't have the strength to stand. Instead, she pushed herself off the bed and literally fell into his arms, hugging him tightly for the second time in the past five minutes with yet another tearful smile.

" 'Dr. Claire Layton'," she said aloud, her smile becoming a grin. "It has a nice ring to it."

* * *

 _"...ton..."_

 _"...r...ton..."_

 _She stirred, but only slightly, tossing and turning on the uneven surface under her. She could hear a distant shrill_ klink, clunk, clang _but couldn't pinpoint the source; what kind of machine made that kind of wretched rack_ —?

 _And there went her mind, remembering about the Time Machine. Bill's face peering in through the door with an odd look as she asked him if anything was wrong. His pause before he replied that, no, everything was in order, but Dimitri wasn't going to be here for the trial run. Then the_ whrrr _of the gears and mechanisms beginning to work against each other, a flash of light, and..._

 _...nothing._

 _"...r L...ton!..."_

 _"...Doctor Layton!"_

 _She jerked once, eyes snapping open. An unfamiliar face full of concern swam in front of her; a swirl of blue, black, and tan. Confusion pounded in her mind as she darted upright, only now realizing that she had been held in someone's arms and was half-laying on the floor. A glance around showed nothing that she remembered; just a lab that was much more well-off than the Institute of Polydimensional Physics. Where was she? Or, more relevantly,_ when _was she?_

 _"Dr. Layton!" the man cried again, and she turned her attention to him. He was a nervous-looking fellow, with wide eyes, a huge round nose, and hair somewhere between blue and turquoise. "Oh, thank goodness you're alright!" he exclaimed as soon as he saw her move. "When you just keeled over like that, I thought for sure you were dead!" Wringing his hands and not seeing the flabbergasted look on her face, he continued, "I sent Dr. Allen to call your Professor over right away, of course, but you gave us a right scare!"  
_

 _She was hardly listening. Her mind was going a million kilometers an hour, and she was having trouble keeping up. "What_ —when _is it?" she asked, standing shakily and looking around._

 _"Noon," he replied simply, giving her an odd look as she surveyed the lab. Part of it looked like a stereotypical lab from a children's cartoon, with strangely-shaped beakers full of strangely-colored liquids. The majority of it, however, looked more like a mechanic's workshop, covered in engines, scrap metal, strange contraptions she couldn't identify, odd tools and such. In the center of the lab was what appeared to be a half-constructed Time Machine, but with some major differences._

 _"Claire! You're alright!"_

 _This voice was vaguely familiar, like a song that used to be her favorite but that she hadn't listened to in years. Spinning around, she gasped, placing both hands to her mouth, when she saw Dimitri standing in the doorway. His hair was a little longer and a little less well-groomed, and he had lost a small bit of the youthfulness in his face, but he looked otherwise almost exactly the same._

 _"Claire?" Concern laced his voice as he stepped forward, placing the back of his hand along her forehead. "You feel a little warm," he fretted. "Perhaps you should go home and get some rest. It's not like we're going to have trouble meeting our next deadline, right?"_

 _For a moment, she just opened and closed her mouth like a fish, trying and failing to process everything. An intense urge to tell him welled up inside of her, but she fought it back down in a moment of rational thought. Obviously, they hadn't been expecting her, so the future Claire (God, that was weird to think) must've kept this from them. How on Earth that worked was beyond her, but she supposed it wouldn't hurt to stay clandestine for now. "Yes, I think I will," she replied, not needing to fake the dazed tone to her voice._

 _If possible, that only made them more concerned. "Wow," Dimitri noted, a hint of suspicion in his voice. "You usually fight me tooth and nail on this. You must be feeling pretty out of it."_

 _Cursing the future her for being as stubborn as she was, Claire hastily responded, "Oh, don't get used to it, Mr. 'My-assistant-clearly-needs-to-be-hospitalized-every-time-she-hiccups'. This is just a one-time deal."_

 _At that, he finally smiled a little, although the concern remained. "You know, you aren't my assistant anymore, Doctor," he reminded her, ushering her towards the door. "We're colleagues now. And I never acted like that in the first place."_

 _She was almost unable to contain her excitement at that. How long she had dreamed of ascending from an assistant to a full-on partner! Sure, the pay wasn't a large amount better, but then she could at least feel like she was on equal ground with her fellow scientists. "Sure you didn't," she teased with a grin, elbowing him lightly as she passed him on her way to the door.  
_

 _"I didn't!" came the indignant cry as she laughed her way out the door. As soon as she was in the hallway, the door clicking shut behind her, she felt the smile slip off of her face as panic returned. God, she couldn't keep this up for long. A few years had passed, obviously, and she had no idea of anything that had happened in that time! Distractedly slinging her bag over her shoulder, she headed down the hallw_ —

 _That was it!_

 _Stopping abruptly, she threw her bag open and rifled through it._ 'Come on, come on, it has to be in here somewhere... aha!' _She reached in triumphantly and pulled out a small black leather-bound book with a red ribbon marker and her name embroidered on the front. It was much more expensive-looking than her current (past?) one_ — _she suspected their budget had skyrocketed suddenly after the time machine experiment_ — _but it was definitely the future her's journal. If anyone knew what was going on in her life, it was... well, her._

 _Tucking the journal under her arm and vowing to read it once she got back to her flat, she set off down the hallway again, in the general direction where she assumed the stairs would be. To her delight, she found them rather quickly, and she quickly set off for the first floor, surprised to find herself on the fifth._

 _As she emerged into the lobby of what was turning out to be a rather impressive office building, the world faded around her at the sound of two simple words._

 _"Ah, Claire."_

 _Frozen solid, she ran that word through her mind a few times but was still unable to process it. Hearing Dimitri's slightly changed voice had been jarring enough, but this... this was just life-shattering. So familiar, yet so completely alien. That same smooth voice and collected tone, but slightly deeper; slightly more mature; slightly more confident._

 _Claire looked up and saw him striding towards her, a soft smile on his face._

 _Her first thought was that he was wearing his top hat, and how great did that make her feel? Her second thought was that, oh, my, he had really grown up a bit, hadn't he? Her third thought was_ 'Nngh—my head—!'

 _A million thoughts cracked through her head; half-memories of this new Layton and this old Claire flashed through her mind for only a millisecond; instantly, several explosions went off in various places around her skull as a headache rampaged. Worry dawned across his face, then surprise when she collapsed, her knees giving out from under her. "Claire!" he called, diving to catch her before she hit the ground._

 _His touch was electric. It didn't feel good. It wasn't a pleasant static or warmth_ — _this was a sharp jolt that made her skin prickle and crawl. A gasp escaped her against her will as that only instigated more memories, these ones slightly less painful. The instant she remembered them, they were forgotten again, but they still left a prevailing ache in her temples. "Nngh..." She felt her eyes screw up and her lips part in a grimace._

 _"Claire, are you quite alright?" And there he was, calm as ever_ — _seemingly unfazed by this. If you didn't know him well, that was. But she was close enough to him to detect the slightest tremor of panic in his voice. Even Clark and Brenda_ —and it hurt to think those names, now; it made her head pound— _weren't able to distinguish between the two, but she was just observant enough and spent quite enough time with him._

 _"Hershel," she whispered._

 _Finally, she opened her eyes; a sense of déjà vu attacked her as, for the second time in the past five minutes, she was in someone's arms, staring blankly at their blurred face. "Y-yes," she quickly stammered out, feeling herself almost blush like a schoolgirl. Something strange was happening; she got the distinct feeling that she wasn't supposed to be here and her soul was trying its best to fix this abnormality. "I'm f-fine, Hershel." She lifted herself out of his hold and he quickly took her shoulder and her hand, helping her rise to her feet._

 _"I'm glad to hear that, my dear," he replied, the fear gone from his voice but concern still evident in his tone. "Perhaps we should get back home quickly. I'm sure the children will be ecstatic that you're back so early."_

 _There went her blood pressure again, off like a firecracker. Her head snapped around and she nearly bellowed, "The children?!"_

 _And that was when she realized it._

 _The blue-haired scientist had called her Dr. Layton. Everyone looked so much older. She was in a much different office with a much different journal, and her center of gravity felt rather off._

 _This had been no small trip._

 _Quickly, she responded to her own flabbergasted shout before Hershel could, although that didn't stop him from giving her a rather scrutinizing look. "I, I_ — _Of course! I wasn't even th-thinking about the ch-children!" Ah, the stupid stutter returns. "L-let's get home. I... I'll make some lunch or something."_

 _Hershel gave her a look. One of those glances that made her heart stop before beating faster than ever before, because, oh, he_ knew, _didn't he? Yes, he definitely knew, or was at least on to her, because he lead her out the door and to his silly red car without further comment_ — _a sure sign that he was figuring her out by the second. Briefly, she allowed herself to hope that whatever reason future her had for keeping this from him wasn't too important, because Hershel would have it deciphered by sunrise._

 _As they drove, she couldn't help but fidget, hands in her lap. Instinctively, she began to twist her ring, only to start when she realized that she had a ring to twist. Looking down, she was captivated by not only the beauty of the silver band and its small blue diamond, but also the odd burn across her hand. It was a perfectly straight line, running diagonally from her knuckle to almost her wrist, and it was obviously an old scar._

 _"Hershel," she said suddenly, catching his attention. "When you proposed to me..."_

 _She trailed off, hoping he'd take the bait and tell her something about the ring. And, although she earned a curious look for her efforts, Hershel was never one to let a lady down. "I can hardly say that I proposed," he chuckled, shooting her a small smile. "You said yes before I could ask." This certainly had her intrigued, but she tried not to show it. "Of course, had I proposed after your Time Machine trial like I had intended..."_

 _It had been a heat-of-the-moment mistake, but a mistake nonetheless._

 _"You're going to propose?!"_

 _Hershel jumped a little at her sudden shout and twisted in his seat to give her a worried look. "Claire, I really do think something must be wrong. How could you not remember_ — _?"_

 _Before he could finish, she was turning away, digging out her journal again and flinging it open to the page with the ribbon stuck in it. She offered only a glance at the date (so it had been ten years since her time...) before quickly moving on to the latest entry._

 _It wasn't written the way she usually wrote her journal entries. While she usually wrote them almost like prose, detailing her day quite extensively, this one was more of a laundry list than anything, detailing the past ten years. Clearly, future Claire had been expecting her and had planned in advance for the issues she would face, although she could hardly make heads or tails of the first part._

Doctor Claire Layton; 10 years since Time Machine  
Work with Doctor Horace and Dimitri  
Luke Triton  
Flora Reinhold  
Clive  
Addy  
Gabriel

 _Despite her confusion, Claire couldn't help but store those names away in her mind as she moved on to the next part. This one had several portions scribbled out._

Time Machine exploded

At _this, she felt herself stiffen and she almost ceased reading entirely. That would explain the burn, she supposed. Once she got a hold of herself, she quickly continued, feeling Hershel's worried gaze dart over to her every few seconds despite him being far too polite to interrupt her when she was so obviously enraptured by what she was currently reading._

Hershel was going to propose  
I was in coma for a month; woke up in hospital

 _At this, she breathed a sign of relief; evidently, she survived the supposed Time Machine explosion._

Ring still in his pocket

 _And that was the straw that broke the camel's back._

 _Because Hershel was going to propose to her; he was going to propose to her all those years ago, back in her own time. And then she almost died_ — _she had put him through the ordeal of almost losing her before he could get the chance to ask._

 _At that moment, there was exactly one thing that Claire Foley wanted out of life._

 _The last name "Layton"._

 _She wanted to tell Hershel that, yes, she did; that nothing would make her happier than to marry him. She wanted him to put the ring on his finger and ask her if she would marry him and for her to say yes and then for the ringing of church bells and the smiles of her friends and family in the crowd, and_ —

 _A lot of strange things had happened to her in the past ten or twenty minutes. She had traveled forward ten years in time. She had discovered her boyfriend's plot to propose and her own inevitable almost-demise at the hands of a Time Machine_ — _the minute and hour hands. There had been the shock of meeting ten-years-older versions of her friends and husband (calling him that would never get old), the strange and cryptic journal entries written by an older version of herself, and even the shock of half-remembered moments from her future/past. But she was about to witness something far, far stranger than any of those._

 _Hershel Layton said "My God!"_

 _His equivalent of the f-bomb fresh on his tongue, he jerked the steering wheel to the side and swerved against the shoulder of the road, slamming on the brakes. "Claire!" he cried, turning to her with overt shock in his eyes. "What is happening to you?!"_

 _For a moment, she didn't understand what he was talking about. Then she saw it_ — _she was glowing; glowing a bright blue light that reflected off of everything around her, tinting everything a pale blue. "I_ — _I don't_ — _!" she exclaimed, looking down at her glowing palms. Hastily, her hands flew to the seatbelt to undo it, but it was far too late; her desire had been heard. Now that she wasn't resisting the pull of time, it was pulling harder than ever._

 _When she looked up, fear in her eyes, she saw more than just her blue glow reflecting into Hershel's. "H-Hershel!" she cried, fearing that she was disappearing; that this was going to be goodbye._

 _His hand reached out for hers. "Clai_ — _!"_

 _He disappeared._

An explosion rocked the earth.

* * *

 _...oops. I angsted again._

 _Only a little, though. The rest was pretty either neutral or fluffy. Or at least more hurt/comfort than angst. There may not seem to be much of a difference, but when you read my ridiculously depressing angsty stuff, you learn to appreciate every speck of light among the darkness. ...Which makes it sound like I'm a soul-eating monster or Dementor or something, but I'm not, I swear._

 _In any case, things are going to be getting a great deal better very soon, especially once we get out of the hospital. Or, rather, once Claire gets out of the hospital, but... semantics. Oh, and I don't think it's much of spoilers to say that Layton and Claire are going to have a relatively happy and undisturbed marriage, even if a lot of crap does happen in the Layton games that I'll have to account for._

 _But that's irrelevant! Anyway, next time in_ Til Death Do Us Part! _Dimitri arrives on the scene and they explain to Claire exactly how many dropkicks to the face Bill Hawkes deserves! She is just as determined to see him out of power after what he did to those poor people! Who else will they get on their side in their rampage against the disgusting little wretch that is Bill Hawkes? And how will the case proceed? And how will Clark and Brenda fit into any of this? Find out next time in_ The Lake of Rage Writes a Mixture of the Angstiest Angst Ever and the Fluffiest Fluff Ever Show!


End file.
